Fire Burns the Wounded
by SolarRose29
Summary: "Barton, stay awake. Don't shut your eyes." The voice was hard, like the ground beneath him, and he knew he should obey it but the gnawing bonfire in his stomach prompted him to escape the realm of reality into a much easier dream-scape.


**Clint has joined Steve and Sam on their search for the Winter Soldier. Clint got injured and is in need of a little field medicine.  
>I don't own any rights. Only lefts.<br>**

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><p>Rough hands yanked at his vest, eliciting a groan from the archer's mouth. Orange flames of fire exploded where his torso should have been and Clint kicked a foot sporadically as the laser of white hot pain raced through his brain. The metallic tang of blood was in his nose, in his mouth, and he could almost swear that he could hear it flooding the air. Flashes of smoke and storm clouds struck his eyes and he shut them against the powerful display. Then there was a shaking of his body and his eyes were open again.<p>

"Barton, stay awake. Don't shut your eyes."

The voice was hard, like the ground beneath him, and he knew he should obey it but the gnawing bonfire in his stomach prompted him to escape the realm of reality into a much easier dream-scape. Cursing above him, the voice rattled around in his eardrums, resonating and rebounding. There was too much noise and with a grimace, Clint turned his head away from the source. More shaking followed.

"Hey! Look at me, look at me." Another command.

Stubbornly, he refused.

"This is all I could find." There was a different voice, this one deeper and not as angry.

"It'll have to do." The first voice was grim and Clint didn't like the implications of that tone.

Glass banging off of concrete rippled through the haze. It was almost enough to pique his interest into opening his eyes and taking stock of his surroundings. But the pain in his belly refused to leave him any freedom and it forced him to stay blind and deaf.

"Sorry," the second voice apologized quickly.

"'s alright, just give it to me," The First voice was impatient.

Fisting in the back of his hair, fingers pushed Clint's head upright and the movement spread down his spine to his abdomen, which shrieked and writhed above his legs.

"I need you to drink this." The First. "Open your mouth."

Volcanic rocks snapped and sparked in the space beneath his ribcage and every muscle seized, tightening and constricting.

"Support his head," The First demanded.

His head got jostled as it changed ownership. Before he had the chance to readjust his sense of equilibrium, calloused fingertips dug into his cheeks, forcing his jaw downward. Summoning whatever strength wasn't being channeled into keeping his entrails from turning to ash, he attempted to jerk out of the intrusive grip, to no avail. The hold only tightened, burrowing into the soft skin. He blinked crusty eyelids and saw a world of spinning crimson, steel and ebony, while a weak whimper escaped his obligatorily parted lips. A burning ocean tumbled through his paralyzed mouth, scraping at his teeth, prickling his tongue and rushing up his nose. Gasping, choking, coughing, he battled the substance that was drowning him, only to be held in place by those awful hands. Cruelly, the anonymous hands clamped brutally on his face and forced more liquid into his mouth. It sloshed to the back of his throat, snaking a trail down his esophagus, past his lungs, into the pit of sulfur that was his stomach.

"Careful," The Second cautioned quietly.

At that single word, the hands on his cheeks loosened just a fraction. It was all he needed. With tremendous effort, Clint wrenched free and twisted to splutter and gag across his shoulder.

"How long do we wait?" The Second questioned over the din of feeble regurgitation.

"We don't," The First stated forbiddingly, tone harder than iron. "He doesn't have much time. If we wait any longer, it'll be too late."

The Second voice swore and The First grunted in agreement. Fabric was torn somewhere over his head, but Clint's sole focus was on emptying his airway of alien substances.

"So that's what you keep in all those pouches," The Second commented in realization.

"I should have had some kind of painkiller," The First reprimanded himself. "I should have been prepared for something like this."

"There was no way you could have known," The Second hurriedly placated.

The First didn't reply. Repressing a shudder, Clint shrunk away from the voices while an anesthetic haze gradually crept over his mind.

Heavy breathing pummeled the air and he couldn't tell if it was his own or that of the unknown persons around him.

"This is going to hurt," The First warned and for the first time, Clint heard something other than anger in the tone.

Leather creaked and suddenly warm breath was in Clint's ear. "I am so sorry," The First croaked, voice breaking, fear, guilt, concern and regret seeping through the smokescreen of rage.

There was no time for reflection on the raw apology before a needle of lightning plunged into the flesh of his abdomen. Back arching, Clint let loose a howl of pain.

"Hold him," The First pleaded, all traces of fury absent.

A boot dropped onto his arm, the treads pressing into his bicep and holding down the thrashing limb. In the same moment, a glove gripped the wrist of his other arm, pinning it in place. Primal instinct bared Clint's teeth and he fought against the human restraints. The loss of movement scraped at long buried wounds and he bucked beneath the constraints.

"I said hold him," The First reminded harshly.

"I'm trying," The Second snapped. "I could use some help here."

Instantly, a leg crossed over Clint's left leg, the knee rammed into his right thigh, effectively immobilizing both his lower limbs. With a snarl, he twisted back and forth, trying to shake off his captors. Another spike of razor-thin pain in his gut claimed his attention, though the message his nerves were sending his brain was garbled, like a television station with spotty reception. Unfocused and blurry, the pain was muted and indistinct. Fingers kneaded into the skin around the fire pit of his middle. Clint looked up at the face of his tormentor, the edges of the world blending into a watercolor painting.

"Almost done. Just hang on, Barton," The First murmured, impossibly worn and tense at the same time.

Wishing he could be reassured by the promise of an end to the misery, Clint let his head fall back limply into the gloved palm at the base of his skull. Not caring whether they kept him stuck to the ground like a bug on an entomologist's board, Clint shut his eyes.

"Finished," The First gasped in relief.

A damp hand reached forward and gripped Clint's shoulder, a firm, grounding gesture that assured him it was finally okay to release himself to the waiting oblivion of unconsciousness.


End file.
